


Left Handed Kisses

by Ever-so-reylo (Ever_So_Reylo)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anyway lots of sex, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Fuckbuddies, Miscommunication, Oral Sex, Pining, Size Difference, Smut, This ship is bringing out the best and worst in me i swear, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-05 13:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13388805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ever_So_Reylo/pseuds/Ever-so-reylo
Summary: “You’re everything,” she thinks he tells her the moment before her brain snaps black from exhaustion.Or maybe she’s just imagining it.A modern AU in which Rey is an Assistant District Attorney working for Leia and Ben is an evil (?) criminal defense lawyer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this really is the AU no one asked for nor particularly wanted--not that it stopped me. I wanted to write something with a modern setting, and I wanted to keep the star-crossed lovers theme of TLJ, so I settled for an AU in which Rey and Kylo are attorneys. Full disclosure: I am a scientist, know nothing about law, and I'm making up lots of stuff as I go, so... just nod along please!  
> Also: the story is all written, I'll have it all up by the end of the week as I finish re-reading and editing it.  
> Also also: mind the ratings. They bang a lot. This ship is allowing me to embrace the trashy pornographer within me and I LOVE IT.
> 
> ETA: There is now a [Russian translation](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7547589) of this fic!!

“Deeper?”

He whispers it into the tender skin at the base of throat, and then pushes a sweaty lock of hair behind her ear and out of the way, for no other purpose than to lick the spot he just bared. Even like that, scratchy with the effort of holding himself still inside her, his voice— _his spectacular, dangerous voice_ —has the ability to make her that much more tight—that much wetter.

It’s a strange position they’re in, one they haven’t tried before—Rey on her stomach and Ben behind her, between her splayed legs, his large hand pressing deliciously on her lower back, holding her down to the mattress. Every once in a while his fingers take off, the pad of his thumb trailing across her spine, tracing the sharp indent of her waist, dipping into one of the two dimples just above her backside, the ones he seems to have developed some sort of less-than-healthy obsession with.

_Jesus. You’re a fantasy lay_ , he told her the first time he noticed them—which happened to be the fourth time they had sex, and the second they did it in a bed, and the first they actually managed to hold off long enough to make it last more than a handful of minutes. At the time, she hadn’t been quite sure how to answer.

Now…

Now, he has her stretched impossibly tight—he always does, he’s so big to begin with, _all of him_ is, but now, here, _like this_ —she can’t move, can’t arch her back quite enough, can’t shift her hips to trick her body into adjusting to him. She can only lay there and take it, feel herself flutter and shake and pulse around him as he presses closer, closer, until he’s almost flush to her bottom.

“You’re so tight already, and I could probably come just from this.”

He props himself on both palms and then leans forward, nuzzling his nose into the hair at her nape, sliding inside impossibly further—God, the friction is… _oh, God_. He husks his next words right into her ear, between a kiss pressed on her earlobe and a soft bite on the tender spot between her throat and her jaw.

“Fill you up good.”

Rey whimpers. Reduced to an incoherent mess, that’s what she is. Always, when she’s with him. _Always_. There is something hot and heavy coiling inside her, and she really—she just— _she can’t_ —

“But maybe—maybe you want me to go deeper?”

She shuts her eyes tight and nods.

 

…

 

She meets him several months after she begins working with Leia as Assistant District Attorney—though, of course, she has known of him for years.

Same law school as Rey, a decade or so ahead of her—and first in his class, according to that stupid plaque hanging in the hall leading to the only restroom on the third floor, that Rey had to pass pretty much every day for three whole years. A reputation in the field for defending the indefensible, and for being quite skilled at it. That interview in which he serenely and unapologetically explained the strategy he had used to win what had come to be known as one of the trials of the decade, gone semi-viral a couple of years earlier, making him just infamous enough. Not to mention that he managed to make partner in the best— _worst,_ in Rey’s book—firm in the city so young that the whole thing still remains beyond most people’s comprehension.

There’s lots of scuttlebutt about him, a myriad of rumors that she gathers and stores through the years, without quite wanting or meaning to.

_He makes prosecutors cry, he makes judges cry, he makes jurors cry—and then, somehow, they do what he wants them to do._

_He gets off the hook murderers, and thieves, and white collar criminals who’ll do it again in a heartbeat._

_Really big on technicalities. And loopholes._

_Oh, oh, and also, he yells in the courtroom. So. fucking. much._

Back at school, her criminal law professor had them read a publication he co-authored about ethics and professional responsibility for criminal defense attorney—a bunch of bullshit, Rey thought privately. And then publicly, when the topic came up during class, Poe snickering in his first and Finn gesticulating wildly for her to stop as she explained to her instructor that no, she didn’t agree that one’s client should be defended no matter how heinous the crime. Complete, utter _bullshit_. And yet, the first time she sees him in a courtroom, when Leia brings Rey in to listen to the closing arguments of a case she’s been helping on, she has to admit that Ben Solo articulates his bullshit very well.

_Before_ , she thinks they’re going to win the case.

She’s bloody sure their going to win the case.

It’s the only logical outcome. It’s just _fair_. There is no alternative option, really.

And then, then _he_ unfolds from his chair, fastens the top button of his suit with his left hand, and slowly walks up to the jury box to deliver his closing statement.

And the floor drops away from her.

“The defense doesn't have to prove anything”, he says, voice low, and dark, lulling the jurors into some kind of stupor. Rey’s used to think of people like Leia or Poe as leaders, as charismatic, but Ben Solo—he’s not even trying to be engaging, and yet everyone in the room latches onto his every words. Onto the way he gestures with his large hands. “Providing proof is the prosecution's burden, and I invite you to take a look at the job the prosecutors has done,” he adds before he proceeds to hammer on every single nanoscale weakness in the evidence the prosecution has mounted.

Something starts swelling uncomfortably in Rey’s chest, even as she cannot quite look away. There is something about him, something— _something_ , and she has to bitterly remind herself that this man is using ridiculous words like _freedom_ and _constitutional rights_ to spare a well-off murderer—fine, _alleged_ —from jail time.

On the prosecution’s side, Leia’s expression is wintry cold, and Poe’s eyes are narrow, his leg bouncing anxiously under the table. Sitting next to Rey in the gallery, Finn begins to fidget, and then to shift visibly, and then—then Rey has put her hand on his thigh and hiss at his to calm down.

Hours later, when the verdict is in, Rey is not even surprised. Neither is Leia, who just shakes her head and holds Poe’s wrist when he looks like he might do something very, very stupid.

Rey just sits there, tearing her gaze away from the obnoxious way in which the defense attorneys are patting each other’s backs, from the defendant’s disgustingly triumphant expression, trying not to see to the dejected way in which the parents of the victims are hugging each other, to tune out Finn’s mumbled course. Without her meaning to, her eyes and thoughts land on Ben Solo—and cannot quite take off again, lingering on him as if to pick him apart, to puzzle out exactly who—how—what the hell just happened in this courtroom.

It takes Rey a while to notice that he’s staring back at her.

 

…

 

She doesn’t find out that he’s Leia’s son until weeks later, and even then it’s only because of a small mix up and some unimportant documents.

One of the secretaries, or maybe even a paralegal, drops the wrong envelope on Rey’s desk.

“Leia—was Columbia you alma mater?”

From her desk Leia doesn’t bother lifting her eyes from the her computer monitor and continues typing. “Yep. Why?”

”There was a letter for Leia Organa-Solo from Columbia on my desk. Alumni stuff, I think.”

“Ah, right. I bet they want money. It’s that time of the year.” She presses a couple of buttons and turns to look at Rey with a smile. “Organa-Solo would be my hyphenated name.”

“Oh.” Rey steps inside Leia’s office and hands her the envelop. Considering that Leia’s the DA her space is not much larger than Rey’s, which is a little depressing when Rey decides to waste a few minutes daydreaming about her future career as a prosecutor. Then again, at least she has a window and a grand total of three potted plants. “I didn’t know you had one.”

Leia shakes her head and smiles sheepishly. “This is what I get for being too lazy to go and legally ditch my ex husband’s name after my divorce.”

Rey smiles back. “I’m actually just surprised that you and one of the main defense attorneys in the city share a last name. Especially considering that it’s such an unusual name.”

Leis doesn’t look up from the envelope she’s tearing open, but her hand clenches around the paper so tight that the paper crumples and her knuckles go completely white.

Rey can’t miss it.

“You don’t know?” She sounds tired, all of a sudden. She sounds her age.

“I don’t know, what?”

“Ben Solo is my son.”

Rey learns quickly that it’s not something people discuss.

 

…

 

It’s Finn’s fault.

_No no no_. It’s Poe’s fault.

Because Finn was going to leave early to meet up with Rose anyway, and it’s Poe who kept trying to tease Rey out of her bad mood—they lost another bloody case today, and Rey can’t accept that another loaded asshole is walking free tonight, she just _refuses_ to—but then some pretty, willowy lady who’s at least three inches taller than him catches his eye, and Rey is forgotten with an apologetic wink and the extorted promise to text him as soon as she gets home.

As if he’s going to be checking his phone.

And Rey feels like she’s drunk her weight in wine, but for some reasons tonight the alcohol doesn’t seem to manage to make her mellow, or incoherent, or numb. For some reason she just feels angry, and mean, and more that a little mad at the world when she spots _him_ —sitting at a table with that ginger guy who always has that smug expression pasted on his face, and a ridiculously tall, ridiculously blond, ridiculously beautiful woman who looks like she could probably pick Rey up by the scruff, and a handful of other people who happen to all white dudes wearing suits that probably cost as much as an open heart surgery without insurance.

But mainly, _him_.

He anger dials up by a factor of one hundred, one thousand, and she’s so furious that when he sees him stand to go get another round of drinks at the bar she doesn’t even _think_ —stupid, _stupid_ wine—and just stalks towards him, stopping scant inches behind his turned back.

“You’re such a _dick_.”

He immediately spins around to look at her, and—he is a giant. He’s a stupid giant, and she can’t remember the last time she’s felt so small, or so pinned by someone’s stare, and for some reason the fact he’s so broad makes her exponentially angrier. He cocks his head and tries to place her for a second. After a moment, his eyes widen in recognition.

“You’re the girl. The new assistant DA.”

This _jerk._

“It’s _woman_ , though I wouldn’t expect there’s such a thing as sensitivity training at your firm.”

His eyes narrow. “What are you doing here? Are you even old enough to be in a bar?”

This _bloody jerk._

“I’m an assistant DA. What do you think?”

He looks at her in that penetrating way he has, the same way he stared at her across the courtroom a few weeks ago. It’s not quite sexual—she’s been ogled and made uncomfortable plenty of time before, and this is not quite it. He looks… curious. Intrigued.

It’s not _quite_ sexual, except that maybe—

“You sure don’t look like it,” he mumbles, and Rey her has the impression that he’s talking to himself. It makes ignoring him that much easier.

“Are you proud of yourself? For making sure that a violent man walked free today? Someone who committed a crime and would probably do it again if he had the chance.”

He studies her calmly. “No. Not particularly.” 

_The gall._

“Do you even realize what you’ve done? You’ve seen the evidence. You must know he was guilty.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead he just leans back into the counter and absentmindedly nods at the pretty bartender when she hands him another beer. “That look you have. It’s the same you had in the courtroom. You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?”

“About what?”

“About everything.”

She snorts. “You make it easy, to make up one’s mind about you.”

He crosses his arm over his chest. There is a tension in him now—like he’s starting to get irritated with her, she thinks—but it’s a little hard to tell, and whatever body-language reading skills she usually has, they’re way too drenched in alcohol to be effective at the moment.

“You know, you might want to consider that you know nothing about me before saying any further. Just a thought.”

“I know all that I need to know.”

“You do?” He studies her for a moment. “Ah. You do.”

“You’re a monster.”

He purses his lips. “Maybe I am.” He’s— _God_ , he’s incredibly good looking, she notices drunkenly. It enrages her, because he doesn’t deserve to look that good, or to be that tall, or to have shoulders that broad. Not with that clearly skewed moral compass of his. “But you’re drunk, and out of place, and need to build thicker skin if you plan to keep that job of yours.”

“Are you even considering what you’re doing to your own _mother_? You’re defending the exact type of people she’s dedicated her entire life to—what are you—let me _go_!”

The alcohol is sloshing in her brain, and it’s a handful of seconds before she realizes that he’s taken her arm and is dragging her towards the exit of the bar, his large frame making it easy to lead her through the Friday crowd.

“I think you’ve said enough. And that you’ve had enough to drink, too. Do you have a coat?”

“No, I—Why?”

The cold of the night air hits her as soon as they’re out of the door, making her shiver.She turns to him, about to protest, but— before she’s realized it, he’s hailed her a cab and pushed her in the back seat, and is handing what looks like way too much cash to the driver. She must have skipped a beat or two, because he’s currently down to his shirt, the pristine white of his shirt making his hair look ever darker—and his shoulders even broader.

His suit jacket is draped around her shoulders.

It’s pleasantly toasty. Not to mention that it smells like—

“Tell him your address and go home, princess.” He closes the car door on her face, looking half tired and half irritated. “And learn to lose a case. It’ll come handy.” He taps on the cab’s roof, and the driver pulls away before she can shrugs of his jacket and throw it back at him.

The last thing Rey can see, right before the cab turns the corner, is Ben Solo slamming his fist on the wall outside the bar.

 

…

 

His phone number is—of course—on maybe half of the documents that are passed around in the DA office on any given day, and Rey knows better than to think that a high powered attorney— scratch that, a man like Ben Solo—would have any semblance of work-life balance and avoid answering his work phone on a Saturday morning.

Still, she can’t help but wish he hadn’t picked up.

“Hello.”

Relax. _Relax_.

“Ben Solo?”

“This is he. Who is this?” he asks, and yet it’s clear that he has already half-recognized her voice. Rey can tell from the harshness of his question.

“I’m… I’m Rey. Smith. We…” She closes her eyes and sinks deeper into the cushions of her couch. “We spoke last night. At Joe’s. I was working with you mother on the Culverton case. Maybe you don’t remember—” _unlikely_ “—but I came up to you and—”

She thinks she hears a sigh, but it could just be some movement on the other end of the phone.

“I know who you are, Rey.”

_Of course._ Really, she’s just glad that he cannot see the way she’s screwing her face.

“Listen, last night… I had a little too much to drink. A lot, actually, and… I exaggerated. I think. I’m not sure I remember exactly what I said, but I—”

“You said that I was a dick,” he tells her, prosaically. “And a monster. And the worst son in the history of procreating. Which mostly shows how little you know about the men in my family,” he adds dryly.

Rey has felt embarrassment before, but as far as she can remember, never quite this intensely. The floor could open and chew her up and swallow her, and still she wouldn’t get far enough from this moment. From this man’s voice. From the memory of the way he looked at her last night, something angry and hungry in his eyes.

She buries her face between her knees.

“I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

A sigh. A deep one. “It’s okay, Rey.”

“No, really, I—”

“It’s fine.”

“I know I was—”

“Let it go, Rey.”

She wishes he’d stop saying her name. Like that.

“I… can I make it up to you?”

There is a silence. A silence that stretches _just a little_ too long, a glitch that tells her something has shifted in their interaction, that this conversation has just taken a slightly darker, heavier turn. Suddenly, it hits her that what she just said could be misinterpreted. Vastly.

That she’s talking with a very powerful man.

“You could stop prosecuting a couple of my clients.”

It’s a good answer, that makes her chuckle and melts away some of her tension.

“Yeah, not happening. But… I don’t know, maybe I could buy you an apology coffee. Or lunch. Or something.”

She thinks she can hear him swallow through the line, but it’s absolutely impossible. She thinks she can hear his heart skip a beat, but it’s probably just hers. She doesn’t particularly want to buy him a coffee, she doesn’t think. Actually, she’s not sure she wants to sit down for a meal with him. All she wants is to travel back in time and not have been a complete asshole last night, but unfortunately that ship has now sailed.

“No need. But if…” Another one of his pauses, heavy, laden with _something,_ something she can’t quite pinpoint. “No need. It’s forgotten. Have a good weekend, Rey.”

How long she keeps staring at her phone after he hangs up, she has no idea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is my main tumblr](https://what-if-im-a-mermaid.tumblr.com) and [this is my Reylo tumblr](https://ever-so-reylo.tumblr.com/) and yeah did I mention how much I love my garbage ship? A LOT.


	2. Chapter 2

They don’t meet again for weeks.

Which is to say that she sees him around the courthouse quite a bit, and he probably sees her just as much, but they both pretend that they don’t.

Except when their eyes catch—one, two, _a hundred times_ —stick for a little too long, and then flit away to find better, safer harbors. Every time it happens she feels her cheeks heat with embarrassment—and something coils deep in her belly.

He _is_ handsome, she has to admit.

Not her type, if she even cared to have a type. But yeah.

He is really _bloody handsome_.

Rey doesn’t think about it, and if every once in while her eyes catch sight of his suit jacket still hanging in her closet—well, it means nothing.

Less than.

 

…

 

It’s four months later—and she’s still cringing about _that_ night—when they find themselves alone for the first time.

In the elevator.

When she enters the narrow space, her face is angled to her phone—Finn needs to stop sending her cat videos twenty times a day, and Rey needs to stop clicking on each one of them, for God’s sake—which is why she doesn’t quite realize she’s not alone until—

“What floor?” he asks, and his voice, his voice, _his voice_.

Her head jerks up in surprise and he’s there, standing not three feet away from her, so close that she has to crane her neck to look at him, at the way his eyes are fixed on her with that _something_ , and would it cost him a lot to smile and not look at her like he wants to—

_Like he wants to…_

“Oh. Fourteen.” She manages to sound normal, she thinks.

She hopes.

He nods, and presses the button, and then—then he looks elsewhere. At the corner where the linoleum floor is about to come off, maybe. Rey wonders if it’s just her impression, of he’s really clenching his jaw. She also wonders if there’s any chance he’s missing the coloring in her cheeks, and the tension mounting between them, and the fact that the temperature in the elevator feels about ten degrees hotter than it should on this time of the year.

Probably not, because out of the blue his eyes shift to hers, and he turns his body a little in her direction, and his lips parts as if he’s about to speak, to _her_ , which is really not something Rey is ready for—

There is a loud ping, and the doors slide open to admit someone else. Without stopping to think about what she’s doing or looking back, Rey runs out of the elevator—five whole floors below where she’s supposed to be going. Whether he notices, she has no idea.

Though he probably does.

As she climbs the stairs, her high heels digging into the tender skin at the back of her feet, she counts the steps to avoid thinking about what just happened.

 

…

 

Rey is good.

At things.

For reasons.

Reasons that have to do with growing up in foster homes that were hit or miss at best, and having to be self-reliant through her formative years, and not really having a go at that being loved unconditionally deal, and yeah. Jump-starting a car, or coding an if else loop, or even cleaning out the gutters are useful skills to have when you’re more or less alone in the world.

While at times she might not be quite sure _why_ decided to become a lawyer, it’s still nice to know she’s good at her job, too. She can tell, because Poe delegates to her more, and Rose pops by her office to ask her questions and hear her opinion about her cases, and Leia—Leia likes her, Rey is pretty sure. Once, when they were sitting together at Ackbar’s retirement party and a little buzzed from the Champagne, she even told Rey conspiratorially that she’s her favorite assistant DA. Sometimes she even lets her cross-examine witnesses for some of the most interesting cases.

Which, Rey thinks, she’s pretty darn good at. At least judging from the scowl she can see on that butthurt ginger’s face from the corner of her eye, and the satisfied way in which Leia has been nodding since Rey started the cross-examination. And yeah, even from the prickle she can feel in the back of her head—which she attributes to the way Ben Solo has been tracking her every movement for the past ten minutes. It started around the time Rey tricked the witness into contradicting his previous testimony, and then intensifies a few moments later, when Rey got him to admit that well, yeah, maybe it’s possible that he didn’t see what he thought he saw.

Rey is almost positive that what she heard from behind her was a sigh.

A short while later, when the judge overrules the third consecutive objection from the defense in as many minutes, she doesn’t think she’s imagining someone snapping a binder shut somewhere behind her.

At the end of the hearing, a chair scrapes on the floor with a screeching sound. When Rey turns to check, Ben Solo is storming out of the courtroom, each step brimming with frustration.

It makes her smile and shiver at the same time.

 

…

 

She is at Starbucks when he finds her a few hours later, having her own private little celebration at one of the more isolated tables in back—all in hopes of not being caught licking the whipped cream away from her eight-dollar glittery, rainbow-colored drink.

“You fucked up my eyewitness testimony beyond repair.”

The voice startles her and makes her jerks her face up way too abruptly, and it’s all she do to avoid spilling her drink and making a mess of herself and her work laptop.

He— _he_ —is there, looking like he always does—which incidentally happens to be like a million bucks. Except that instead staring at her with poorly disguised curiosity like he has in the past few months, now his eyes are openly hostile, and and he is…

 _Sulking_.

He is positively, actively sulking. He was sulking in the courtroom already—way beyond that, he was _mad_ —but now he’s standing in front of her with obvious belligerence and a pouting lower lip, a sullen man-boy in a twenty-thousand-dollar suit who sold his soul to corporate capitalism and looks too handsome for his own good.

And hers.

She straightens in her chair and takes a sip from her straw, trying not laugh in his face at his expression.

“Um, thank you, I guess.”

His eyes narrow. “It wasn't a compliment.”

She shrugs. “It kinda sounded like it was.”

“You are mistaken.”

“Good. Because I would be remiss if I didn't give due credit to the sloppy way in which you guys prepped the witness, too.”

His eyes are slits, and his lips are pressed together, and Rey has to admit that maybe, _maybe_ , she’s enjoying herself a bit here. She gestures to the seat in front of her—not because she particularly wants him to sit with her, but because her neck is starting to ache from craning to look at him, not to mention that she’s already been pretty rude to him for no real reason. At least, that’s what she tells herself as she idly stirs her drink with her straw and watches the way he folds his massive forms to take a seat.

His body is…yeah. He's unlike any of the men around her. And Finn and Poe are no slouches.

“What’s up with the accent?”

It takes her moment to realize that he’s referring to _her_ accent. “Oh. I grew up in England.”

“Are your parents British?”

She bites her lower lip, and pretends not to notice when his gaze shifts to her mouth. “I don’t know.”

He keeps studying her with curiosity, but doesn’t push the matter. Staring at her must be doing something for him, though, because his sullen expression is mellowing a little. Rey tells herself she doesn't care, and focuses of her drink.

“Come work with me.”

Her eyebrows shot up and she almost choke on a mouthful of ice. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re wasted in the DA office.”

“Wh— _Excuse me_?”

“You have great instincts. I can teach you to take advantage of them.”

_The. Gall._

“I—What? You realize that—I just completely screwed you over. I’m not sure I need you to teach me anything.” She stabs her straw in her drink. “Plus, your mother can teach me everything I need to kn—”

Lightning-quick, he leans forward over the table. “Do _not_ call her that.”

For all that he’s not exactly amiable most of the times, the vehemence in his words still suprises her. Their eyes hold for a moment, hard, and she reads a warning in the way his jaw sets, in the the way his hand clenches in a fist until his knuckles are white. She nods, slowly, and after a moment he seems placated. 

Somewhat.

“With the DA, it’ll be years before you’ll get to handle the really interesting cases.“

It’s true. Rey shrugs. “I don’t care. It’ll be worth it, if I don’t have to work with the kind of people _you_ work with.”

He rolls his eyes, and yeah, it’s a bit of a punch in her guts. He really _is_ attractive, in a way that she can’t quite make sense. She’s not the type to dwell on boys, or on whether they are good looking of not, but there is something about him that makes her—

“You DAs. And your high horses.”

She snorts. “You high-powered defense lawyers. And your lack of morals.”

Her phone vibrates, and he notices, just as she does, that perched the way it is on the edge of the table it’s bound to fall down. They both make a grab for it, Rey a fraction of a second quicker—not significantly, just enough that it’s her hand that ends up closing on the phone, while his hand wraps around hers.

It’s a huge hand, warm, surprisingly callused, and—

And still there. Because he doesn’t let go. For at least…

Too long, really.

Why she doesn’t ask him to, or even make him, why they both keep staring at their joined hands like they hold some kind of answer, she is not sure. Out of nowhere, something hot and liquid coils inside her, licks along her nerve endings. It gets even more intense when he leans into her.

“I feel it, too.”

It’s not the words per se, but the way he says them—his tone suddenly lower, his lips barely parting, the slight puzzlement in his tone.

It makes her brain stutter.

“I—What?”

“This.”

 _This, what?_ She should ask. Or _, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please, let go of me_ , would be appropriate, too.

She says nothing.

“I think about it. Often.” He huffs out a silent, rueful laugh, and for a moment he looks as overwhelmed and taken aback as she feels. “Too often, really. It’s distracting.”

“I… Distracting?”

“Distracting. From work. From… from everything, really.”

There is no way she can answer that coherently. There is _no way_ she—

“Mister Solo, I—”

“Ben.” _His voice_. His voice, and the way he’s looking at her. She shifts in her chair and realizes—she is… _oh, God_. It’s been—months, even years. She barely ever _thinks_ about sex these day, and yet here she is. Wet, because a guy, a guy she knows to be an complete asshole with no morals and almost certain mommy issues is _barely_ holding her hand. And looking at her like he wants to… “I think you can call me Ben, at this point. Rey.”

“I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation for us to—”

He immediately lets go of her hand and leans back into his chair. Just like that, it’s like the past two minutes never happened.

Rey can almost think again. Almost.

“You’re right.” He looks away from her, making a show of studying something in the direction of the entrance—maybe the couple who just came in, maybe the barista’s expert movements as she prepares something that is at least two thirds whipped cream. He doesn't turn to her before speaking.

“You can tell me to leave, you know. Tell me to leave and I’ll leave, and we don’t need to talk about this ever again.”

There is a hint of a challenge in his tone, and something inside Rey panics at hearing it.

_Yes. Please, leave._

_Leave, now._

“No. You don’t need to leave.”

_I don’t want you to leave._

She has no idea what she’s doing, but apparently he can read all he needs to in the slight hitch in her voice. In the firmness of her _no_. In the way she needs to lick her suddenly dry lips.

There is something new edging his eyes, now.

Something hungry.

“Do you have plans for tonight?”

Yes. She does, in a way. It’s Friday, which always means going to the gym. Some prep for next week’s hearings while she polishes off a frozen dinner, afterwards. Finishing up the paperwork that has been accumulating for the past few days and that she never really seems to be able to catch up on. Maybe call Jess and watch something on Netflix while they’re on the phone, like they’ve taken to doing since she broke with her latest girlfriend, the chatter drowning whatever terrible show they’ve picked for the night.

She has plans, then, and yet she’s not surprised when the word comes out of her mouth and lingers, suspended between them.

“No.”

He nods, and why, why, _why_ is this man so bloody attractive to her, she has no clue. She never react like this to people, to men, not without talking herself into it for ages before.

 _Dangerous_. This feels dangerous.

“I think you should come to my place.”

It’s a terrible idea. It’s the worst idea she has ever heard. He’s at least ten years older than her, he is Leia’s son, he works at Snoke’s firm, and no matter that she apologized for drunkenly saying so to his face, she remains convinced that he _is_ a dick. He clearly has some anger issues, and family issues, and he’s probably in the ninety-fifth percentile when it comes being a shitty human being, at least judging from the people he associates with.

And yet.

 _Distracting_. That’s what he is.

She nods, and the look of relief on his face mirrors something unknotting inside her.

 

…

 

 

He does offer her something to drink, but it’s obviously only a formality, one that she is quick to decline.

 _Then_ —then they stand there, in the middle of his apartment, that happens to be too large, too uncluttered, too obviously furnished by an interior decorator. It makes her feel a little insignificant, wearing her nice but visibly cheap dress that she agonized over choosing and that is maybe a little too short.

And yet he’s not quite _smooth_ , which surprises her.

He runs his hand through his hair at least twice, and lets his arms hang awkwardly down his sides, and he’s not quite looking at her—except when he seem to be unable to stop himself, and his eyes flit to the expanse of her throat, to the legs exposed underneath the hem of her skirt, to her mouth. Only to immediately return to a spot over her shoulder that seems to be _just_ _riveting,_ the coloring on his cheek a little more intense.

Not like she expected, then. Not at all.

For the first time she has to wonder how often he does this, whether this makes him feel painfully out of control, if _this thing_ is as out of character for him as it for her. She’s been hyperventilating over the decision to meet with him since the moment he left her alone in the coffee shop, but seeing him hesitant, almost uncertain of what to do… It’s what melts her anxiety and makes her walk up to him, and go on her toes, lifting herself until she can feel the heat of his skin—heels, she should have worn heels—and apparently that’s everything he needs. His hands come up to hold her a little too tight on her waist, spanning it almost completely, drawing her closer.

“You okay with this?”

He says the words against her cheek, his lips tracing shapes against her skin, and he’s close—so close that she can barely focus on whatever it is that he’s asking. It’s a stupid question, anyway. She just inhales, and nods urgently, feeling him hard against her tummy, hard and hot and solid when they haven’t even kissed yet.

They haven’t even kissed, and they’re going to—

“Okay. Okay, Rey.” His breath is a warm chuff against her cheekbone. “I’m going to fuck you, then,” he says quietly. He presses a kiss to the line of her jaw. Another a few millimeters lower. “Okay?”

She can only nod again, and let him push her down to the couch, let him kiss her all the while. It’s unlike any first kiss she’s ever had—it’s thorough, and familiar, and obscenely intimate, and it’s as if all of her nerve endings start singing together like a choir.

“You smell incredible,” he says as soon as his tongue is not licking the inside of her mouth. He smells good, too—dark and masculine and something else, something hidden and new to her that makes her head spin, makes her lose track of entire pockets of time, so that she’s not quite sure how and when it happened that his jeans are open and his t-shirt is off—and she really, really couldn’t have known that he’d look like _that_ underneath—and how is it possible that her dress is off, too, and—

The way he is _staring_ down at her.

Like she’s actually beautiful. Like she’s the reason why his cheekbones are flushing so hot, the reason why his briefs are indecently tented like that and his hand has to slide down and grip the base of his cock. Like he can’t quite _comprehend_ her body, and without any conceit Rey knows she’s fit, she knows she’s okay looking and maybe even _cute_ , but the type of women he could get into bed with if he wanted are probably way more…

Yeah. _More_.

“I have, um—” she crosses her arms on her chest, “—smallish breasts, in case you didn’t notice. But I can keep my dress on if you—”

Neither forceful nor particularly gentle, he takes her wrists and pins them to her sides, and then—he bends down to her, mouth open, and there is nothing delicate, or _cute_ about the way he licks the underside of one breast, about the way his mouth moves around towards her nipples, about the way he grunts his pleasure against her skin.

”High pornography,” he murmurs, more at himself than at her, and she lets her back arch as he plays her like an instrument, his hands getting increasingly carried away.

His control is—not _quite_ there. Erratic, at best.

“Ouch,” she tells him when he squeezes her waist too tight, even though it's more the surprise. It doesn’t really hurt. _More_ , that’s what she should really be saying.

“Sorry, sorry.”

She can tell that he’s attempting to slow down, his forehead leaning on her sternum as if he’s trying to give himself some space from this. From her body. ”This is…Rey.” He can’t quite stop himself from licking her skin. Nibbling on her. “I’ve thought about this.” He does something with his teeth that—she _doesn’t_ like rough play in bed, never has. But _this_. “A lot.”

_Oh, God._

“I’m clean,” he tells her as his hand begins trailing lower. There are condoms in the purse she left somewhere in the entrance, condoms that she bought at the Walgreens two blocks from her apartment, condoms that they must use because she’s a well-educated adult who had a decent sex ed and knows everything about the possible consequences of having unprotected intercourse with a virtual stranger.

“Me too,” she hears herself breathe out precisely as his fingers part her, and apparently they’re going to be incredibly, deliciously stupid about this.

“Rey. _Shit_ , Rey.”

Her eyes spring open. “What? What did I—”

“You’re just…” his fingers move between her folds, and how does he know exactly where to linger, where to press to make her feel—make her feel _like that_. ”Nothing. You’re just—” There’s a tremor in his voice that matches the one in his hands. “ _Really_ wet.”

 _God_. “It’s because…” His thumb touches—yes, yes, _there_ —and another of his fingers slides lower, circling around— _there, there, there._ “I _really_ want to— _ah_ —do this.”

He huffs a silent laugh against her cheekbone.

“That night. After the bar.” His fingers are _so_ long, making room inside her, and she’s going to die. She’s going to burst at the seams and die of this pleasure before it’s even begun. A terrible, wonderful death. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I put you in that taxi when all I wanted was to…” His other hand is keeping her hips still, forcing her to lie there, to take it, and this is not quite—it’s not— “Then your voice on the phone, and I had the _filthiest_ thoughts.”

“ _Please_.” To her ears, it doesn’t even sound like her voice anymore.

He shifts up, leaning his weight on his palm and looking at her from above, at the way his other hand spans and covers her skin, the soft ceiling light creating a small halo in his hair. He’s as imposing as always to her, and yet for some reason she doesn’t care—for some reason she feels powerful as he groans and aligns himself to her, as he tries to nudge his way inside her, slow and purposeful.

“Relax.”

“I am relaxing.”

Except that she’s not. She’s ridiculously turned on. Never quite like this before, she thinks. She _knows_.

“ _Relax_.”

“It’s been a while,” she admits without quite meaning to.

“Yeah. Me too,” he mutters, and one hour ago she wouldn’t have believed it—look at him, just _look at him_ —but there’s the matter of the darkness tinging his voice, of the way he was fidgeting nervously with his wrist watch in the middle of his living room only a few moments ago. “Why are you so tense?”

“I’m not—I… Maybe you’re just too big and— _ah—_ ”

He manages to slip the tip inside and it feels too big, too much. He makes a choking sound, and she could swear that she feels his cock twitch. “Fuck. Are you—”

Something happens—her hips shift, his angle changes and—he bottoms out.

“ _Oh_.”

His eyes are glazed with pleasure. His throat works for one long moment before he can actually speak.

“Sorry, Rey.” He buries his face in her throat. “Fuck.”

He _sounds_ sorry, but also something else. He doesn’t pull out, and she’s left there trying to absorb it—absorb him. Absorb this. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again against her slack lips, pressing kisses of sorts against her, kisses she can’t respond to, and then he moves, tentative, once, twice, three times, and the spots he’s hitting…

She didn’t quite know about them.

Her mind snaps blank.

“You always looked so beautiful when I…” There is wonder in his voice as he thrusts slowly inside her. “But I never thought…”

Lost for words, that’s what he sounds, when empty words are his trade. It scarcely matters. She knows exactly what he means because it’s the same for her, the pleasure pulsating inside her, swelling, growing sweeter and louder.

“I love this,” she whispers in his ear, and it’s Ben’s turn to nod blindly.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, 1) I am trash, 2) they will bang more, 3) long live this beautiful ship.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that this is trash, and highly pornographic at that. Save yourself while you can.

 

 

They don’t need to discuss it.

She knows, and he knows, and they both know that the other knows that telling someone, anyone else about this—this… _this thing_ they're doing would be an eminently bad idea, so they act accordingly.

They don’t discuss much at all, actually, and when they do it’s not about work, nor pleasant chatter about the weather, or the best place to grab a bite within three blocks of the courthouse.

It’s _please, please, deeper,_ and _I can’t believe you’re so tight_ , and _I want to come on every single inch of you_ , usually whispered furiously into flushed skin or accompanied by guttural moans.

Not to say that they never cross paths.

One night Rey and Finn exit the courthouse exactly at the same time as Ben does, and he patiently holds one of the doors open for them, politely pretending not to notice the dirty look Finn is giving him for daring to exist—politely pretending that he and Rey are not going to be naked in the same bed in less than two hours.

Another day they are crammed in the back of a crowded elevator, and Ben’s pinkie extends to briefly touch Rey’s before a shrill ping announces his floor.

Maybe.

Or maybe it’s just an accident.

“I like your dress. That color suits you,” he emails her one afternoon, right after they pass each other in one of the hallways and he completely ignores her in favor of continuing talking with Hux.

The following day, her phone vibrates in her pocket.

_I dreamt of kissing your wet cunt. All night._

Her panties stay damp as she watches him stand to cross-examine her witness.

 

…

 

She’s failing at this, she’s pretty sure.

Which is to say—she’s really— _really—_ enjoying herself, if that’s even the right word for the pleasure running up her spine, and the tremors in the thighs, and for the heat blooming at the base of her tummy, but the problem is—she’s pretty sure she not upholding her end of… of _this_.

“Rey,” he tells her, he _breathes_ it against her labia before parting them again and licking between them, and the pleasure is just _ridiculous_ , there is no way she—“Focus.”

She’s trying.

She she has little, _very_ little experience with this, and he is just way… larger than her mouth, and the fact that he’s so intent on licking her raw throughout all of it makes her job that much harder. But she’s trying, trying to forget the pulsing sensation between her legs, to concentrate, to bend down to gently lick the slit, to circle her lips around the head, to suck it with delicate pulls.

He likes that. She knows because, yeah, his cock twitches, but also because of the way his fingers tighten even more against her hips and drag her even closer to his mouth, because of the way he hums into her cunt, the vibrations gliding through her and making her whimper and lose track of what she was doing, until she’s too busy trying to not to come from the pleasure to do anything more that loosely hold him in her hand.

 _Again_.

“Wow. You’re really terrible at this,” he tells her, and she can feel his smile against the inside of her thigh. His hands slide to her backside, covering each cheek. He has incredible hands. She has a thing for his hands. She thinks about his hands an inordinate amount of time, and _now_ , now they’re…

“I—Stop. I can do better. I— _Ah._ ” She presses wet, unfocused kisses to the sides of the shaft, and she knows that they can’t feel like much to him, but it’s really all that she is able to muster. At this point.

“It’s ok. I’m going to come just by eating you out.” His hands tighten on her asscheeks, separate them, and then—then he sucks on her as if Rey is the end of everything to him. The noises he makes are the filthiest thing she has ever heard, and she is getting—impossibly—even wetter. “You can lick me clean. Afterwards.”

She moans around the head of his cock, and that— _that_ works, judging from how he arches his hips, how his grip tightens, from the way his fingers start moving with purpose.

He is a bit obsessed, perhaps. On a mission, in a way, maybe first hinted by the way his fingers always seem to skim her, _there_ , and then by things whispered feverishly in her ear in the heat of the moment. _I have a thing for your ass_ ; and, _I really want to do you. There_ ; and even once, memorably _I thought of fucking your ass this morning and I made myself come_.

So, yeah. He has _said_ things about this, but he hasn’t quite done anything of the sort and she...

“Ben.” She whimpers and hides her face in his groin, pressing chaste kisses along the crease of his thigh, taking in his comforting, sensational smell.

“Shh.” His finger slides deeper, and she’s losing her grip on this. On _everything_. “Just breathe.”

She does, and lets go.

 

…

 

“Your Honor, the prosecution’s line of questioning is leading, at best, and the witness is not hostile,“ he tells the judge, his tone cold and long-suffering. He is tall. Too tall. So tall that he’s almost as tall the judge—who is sitting on the bench. Why she’s surprised about it, about anything that has to do with his body, she’s not quite sure.

“That is patently false. It is the only possible line of questioning, given the evidence that have been provided—”

“Most of the evidence she is referring to has been ruled inadmissible—”

“Not all of it, if you recall—”

“ _Enough_. Jesus, the two of you…” The judge shakes his head and lifts his fingers to massage his temples. “The objection is overruled,” he says tiredly after alternating looks between the two of them. “Go back to your seats, and… I don’t know. Try to be… nicer with each other. More civil, at least.”

“We will try,” Ben tells him with a completely straight face.

  

…

 

His shoulders are a work of art. They’d be ridiculous, really, if the rest of him weren’t so long and broad and solid. As it is, they are perfect, hard muscles rippling under his pale skin every time he so much as shifts his position.

“How do you even look like this?”

“Mmm?” His face is buried in his arms, which in turn are propped on the pillow. It’s a really soft pillow, wrapped in what is probably a nine-hundred thread count dark-blue pillow case, and it probably costed what Rey makes in two weeks, but that’s beside the point. What’s more to the point is the way his muscles feel to the touch when she runs her hands on them, and the swells and dips of his shoulder blades, and the fine, too long hair at the base of his neck that tickles her nose whenever she leans forward to smell her favorite spot in his throat. He’s so massive that with her legs straddling his hips it feels a little like riding a pony.

How she managed to convince him to give her his back and let her give him a massage, she still doesn’t know. It’s not like him, for sure, to be still like this.

“When do you work out, anyway?”

“When I’m not working. Or sleeping.” He shift a little when she rotates her palm on a particularly tense knot between his shoulder blades, and sighs with what Rey hopes is pleasure. “When I’m not with you.”

It’s not a lot, lately. The time they don’t spend together. By now, Rey knows the access codes to his building and his apartment, and the other day she blushed furiously when she discovered that his housekeeper washed and ironed and folded her cute-but-serviceable underwear, and she forgets her cellphone at his place so often that they have a well-established and very secretive protocol for him to get it back to her without anyone being the wiser. 

Not that it means anything. It's just sex that they meet for. But yeah, it’s not a lot, the time they spend apart.

And yet he’s so damn fit.

“You look like you work out three hours a day.”

“I don’t.” His voice is muffled by the pillow as she continues with her massage. He sounds mildly uncomfortable with the conversation—which of course spurs her continue.

“Seriously. You have, like, an eight pack.”

“Rey…”

It’s hard to tell, but she thinks she can see a hint of red on what little she can see of his cheek. She _loves_ it.

“No, really. You’re shredded.”

“Rey.” There's a warning in his tone.

She leans in. “I mean it in a good way.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

“It's good that you’re ripped—”

“ _Rey_.”

She has to laugh. He snatches her hand from his shoulder and brings it his mouth, first pretending to bite it and then pressing a soft kiss on her knuckle.

“It’s not like you’re not fit, too.”

“Thank you, sir,” she says primly. “I work out and eat my greens and lean proteins. I’ll have you know that I was a student athlete, too.”

He turns his head and opens one eyes, and oh, the angles in that face of his. They are a thing of beauty. She simply _must_ bend down and kiss them. “Really? Me, too. What sport?”

“Fencing. What about you?”

He shifts up to his elbow and turns from underneath her, almost making her fall from him and off the bed.

“What—Hey—”

“No shit.”

“What?”

“You _fence_?”

Not this conversation. Not again, and not with Ben. She huffs. “Yes. And before you start, fencing is a real sport. Just because we don’t get the attention football or baseball or, I don’t even know, lacrosse get, it doesn’t mean that—”

“ _I know_. I fenced, too. I went to college on a fencing scholarship.”

“Oh.” Wow. She did _not_ see that coming. “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah. _Oh_.”

“That’s… a coincidence.” He looks like he can’t quite believe it, either. “You now what—we should spar! I haven’t had a fencing partner in like… three, four years? I would probably suck at it at first, but I’m sure my muscles would catch up quickly. Hey, I’m pretty sure there’s a gym that rents equipment on 21st—” She stops herself abruptly, realizing what she just said. They’ve never spent time together outside his apartment. Neither of them has ever even shown interest in it. Rey feels herself flush hotly. She has been naked with him for the past three hours, but suddenly she _feels_ naked. “If you want.” She adds hastily. “I mean, I know you’re super busy, and—”

“Yeah, we should,” he interrupts her, without quite looking at her. Why he’s clearing his throat when his voice sounded perfectly fine, she has no idea.

Then her turns back onto his stomach, and after a second of hesitations she continues with her massage, his muscles supples beneath her fingertips.

 

…

 

 

He is yelling on the phone like he often does, for a myriad of reasons—misplaced files, background checks that didn’t turn out as they should have, his army of paralegals screwing up something. Hux’s sheer existence.

By now, Rey has learned to be largely unaffected—okay, fine, not to be too amused—by the way he raises his voice or kicks the closest piece of furniture when things don’t go his way. If a call is at all related to a case she’s working on, he gives her a pointed look and closes himself in his study while Rey knows to put her earphones on. Because, yeah, he has a study in his apartment. And guest bedrooms. And, at least two bathrooms that she knows of—though there might be more.

Working for the bad guys clearly pays _way_ better.

“No fucking way. He’s never going to get off with a substance abuse education course.”

Rey tries not to smile as she pours herself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice that started miraculously appearing in his fridge a couple of months ago. She initially felt uncomfortable stealing so much of his food, but for some reason he has all her favorite things around, and they never seem to run out. Why every time she’s here in his fridge there’s a new bottle of her favorite pulp-free OJ—that she has never, _ever_ seen him drink—she truly cannot fathom. Ben, of course, only eats when reminded that he should, and even then it’s five minutes spurts of calorie-dense foods so that he can forget about the fact that he’s a human being with basic human needs for the next twelve hours. So, yeah, the presence of the juice, and of Rey’s favorite type of yoghurt, and the super expensive granola bars that she never buys because she feels guilty just thinking about it, it all remains a mystery.

“Of course he’s going to get convicted. No attorney in the world has the skills to get this dipshit acquitted.”

Maybe the housekeeper just buys stuff at random?

“Yes, because last time it was his first fucking DUI, not the second one, and not three fucking months after his first one. He’s barely twenty-one! I’m not his babysitter, keeping him away from that shit is not. My. Fucking. Job!”

There is a loud sound —a fist slammed against a wall, Rey would guess from experience, though Ben is out of her line of sight. When he strides into the kitchen, the first thing he does is tossing his phone on the counter.

“This rich, entitled, spoiled piece of shit.”

 _Don’t smile,_ Rey tells herself. _Don’t laugh. Don’t tell him he’s adorable when he’s throwing a tantrum, cause he most definitely would_ not _understand._

“Do you realize you are describing most of your clients?” She takes another sip of her juice. “And by most, I mean every single client who has stepped foot in your office since you started practicing?”

She expects something flippant in return, something about DAs and their misplaced feelings of superiority, or a friendly reminder that if she continues moralizing he’ll throw her out in the snow. Or even one of his curt _mind your own damn business_ that are all bark and no bite.

Nothing of the sort comes, though. The silence stretches, and when she lifts her eyes it’s just him staring at her, throat working and nostrils flaring a bit, and for a moment she’s a little scared, because for all the times she’s seen him yell in the courtroom he’s never been quite _angry_ at her, and this—now, it looks like maybe he might be. Quite a bit.

She clutches the edge of the kitchen island.

“Ben? I was kidding. I’m sure at least _some_ of you clients are not —”

He’s there before she can finish the sentence, lifting her and arranging her so that she’s sitting on the breakfast island, his hips making his way between her legs.

“Ben? What—”

The kiss surprises her—not because he doesn’t kiss her all the time, but because it’s… oddly sweet, and deep, and maybe even a little desperate.

“You taste like oranges,” he says against her lips.

“I, um. Yeah. I just had your orange juice.”

“I hate oranges.”

 _What?_ “You hate oranges? Then why do you always—”

He apparently doesn’t hate oranges enough to not continue kissing her. He slides her skirt up her legs, his forearm wrapping around her lower back and drawing her even closer. His hands are urgent, messy, roaming over her mostly covered form. It’s strangely erotic, the way he doesn’t seem to be able to let her go, to make up his mind about what he wants to do to her.

“Ben? Are you—”

“Rey.” She finished getting dressed for the day not ten minutes ago, and now, now he’s undoing all of it—lowering his zipper, taking his erection out with trembling fingers, pushing her underwear to the side with clumsy, greedy movements. “Rey.”

He’s inside her before she knows it, and she—she wasn’t quite ready, not quite expecting it, and it’d be nice to a have a second to adjust to his—but no, he pushes further and further within her, as if trying to crawl inside her, to lock them together for the foreseeable future.

“Ben.”

Another thrust, a little too deep, and—it does feel nice, nice in a way it always is with him, but now, now it burns, too. Now it’s too much, out of control, now there’s an edge to it that makes her think that maybe—

“Ben.”

She cups his face, forcing him to hold her eyes, and—he looks so… young. So hungry. A little lost. A boy in an expensive suit, really.

A boy who maybe needs her, right now.

“Slow,” she tells him, and then presses kisses into the corner of his lips, into his cheekbone, into the line of his jaw. “You can go slow. I’m here.”

He swallows heavily and nods, and she tightens her arms around him.

 

…

 

She first feels two arms close around her waist, and years and hundreds of dollars of self defense classes flow to the forefront of her mind and scream at her to _kick, elbow, head-butt whoever this asshole is._ Then—then she feels the solid heat of his chest, and the way he smells envelopes her, and when he bends down to speak into her cheek she can actually see a slight smile in the crease of his eyes.

“Rey. Damn you.”

Her hands drop the file she was studying and lift to… ostensibly to push him away, but what they end up doing is covering his, right where they’re pressed on her stomach.

“You do realize we’re in the courthouse—”

”Relax.” He murmurs it in her ear, and by now she has a pavlovian reaction to his voice. It liquifies her spine and melts her brain and that’s not even half of it. “There’s no one around. And it’s past ten. You should be home.” He draws her tighter to him. “Well. At my place,” he amends.

“Still.”

He presses a kiss behind her ear, and given where they are she shouldn’t encourage him, she really shouldn’t, but entirely of their own volition her thumbs start rhythmically caressing the back of his hands. “There’s no one, I checked.”

“Are you going to murder me and hide my body? Because of today?”

“I should.” His voice his muffled into her skin. “You damn loophole goblin.”

She feels her smile widen.

“We’re totally going to win this case.“

He doesn’t bother denying it. “We’ll appeal.”

“Of course. Is Snoke going to murder you?”

He gives a small shrug, that seems to reverberate deep within her muscles and joints.

Her body—it’s beginning to know him. To trust him. Which is ridiculous, really.

“Probably. Come on, let’s go home.”

 

…

 

“Anyway.”

“Mmm?” She doesn’t turn, and continues playing with the components of his toaster.

 _I’ll just buy another one,_ he told her not five minutes ago, his hands sliding up under her— _his_ —t-shirt and wrapping around her, completely covering her waist. _Leave it and come to bed._

She hasn’t stepped away from his delicious, perfect warmth, but she’s still taking apart the appliance. _I can fix it. Just...Two more minutes._

“I have a place. Upstate.”

The insulator is slightly misplaced and making contact with that protruding bit of the basket—that’s what’s causing those weird sparks whenever they try to toast bread. Well, whenever _Rey_ tries to toast bread. Who knows if Ben has ever used anything in this kitchen before.

“Right. Bought with blood diamond money or something, I bet,” she tells him distractedly as she pokes at the thermostat and puts it back into his place. “Here, now it should work.” She leans over the counter to grab a slice of bread and puts in the toaster, trying not to focus too much on the way Ben’s fingers tighten on her hips—just like they do when…

“Sold my soul to satan, actually. Anyway. Next weekend it’s supposed to snow and stuff. I’m thinking of going. The nature is good.” He says it casually and even shrugs, like he could take it or leave it, but not too long ago, while Rey was googling an address on Ben’s laptop, she noticed a folder of pictures of him hiking in what looked like at least ten different national parks. Sometimes wearing adorable hats. She hides a little smile at the thought of Ben Solo, man of a thousand suits, being a secret outdoorsman.

“Sounds cool. Are you going with Hux?”

She only turns to face him because the silence stretches for moments that become seconds that become…too long. He steps back a little, but not enough—when they are alone like this, in his apartment, he’s really bad at keeping his hands off her, at giving her space.

Not that she seems to mind.

She cocks her head. “Mmm?”

“No,” he tells her slowly, cautiously.

“Oh?” Maybe he’s going with… a woman? _Oh_. Maybe Phasma? Whom he actually seems to be able to stand and enjoy having conversations with and even like _like_? Rey immediately tells herself to stop biting her lower lip. It would be— _fine_. Absolutely fine.

Maybe they have a thing. They do seem to be very friendly, and she is ridiculously beautiful and makes Rey feel like a thirteen year old boy, but not because she’s a bitch or anything, just… by existing. And it’s not like Rey and Ben are exclusive—well, it’s not like Rey and Ben are _anything_ , really, except people who happen to work together, and the and occasionally… okay, _often_ … well... —but yeah, of course it's fine, fine, _fine_.

Rey knows she’s not the type of person to inspire unbridled lust, is actually kind of surprised that Ben is still into her after so long, and yes, maybe lately she and Ben have been spending their weekends together, but it’s not as if he owes her—

“The two of us. You and I.”

She is… confused.

“You and I?”

“Yeah.” He swallows, and she can see his throat move. “Do you want to go upstate together next weekend?”

Her silence—it’s stupid. It’s stupid that her mouth won’t work and open and produce words and answer what he just asked when she knows she is perfectly able to have a conversation, has been doing it for decades, has passed _the freaking bar_ , in fact—

“Never mind. I’ll just—”

“Yes. Yes, I would love to.” She realizes she’s nodding furiously and stops herself. “I would love to go. With you. Next weekend. If you still want.”

He nods, with remarkably more dignity than Rey, and then just stares at her, in that hard, quietly intense way of his.

Something electric runs between them. Something scary and sweet and wonderful, something that she’s terrified she’s just imagining.

“Rey, I—”

The toast pops up with a startling sound, and that’s the end of it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I remain garbage  
> \- Aside from law, I also know nothing about fencing or toasters. Anyway.  
> \- Thank you for all the comments and encouragement and to those who proclaimed themselves my trash heap friends, know that I respect and treasure you  
> \- I WILL GO DOWN WITH THIS SHIP.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

“It’s not like—I mean, I don’t really care,” she lies.

He says nothing, and continues running his hand through her hair. He is, of course, highly trained at recognizing lies, while she is possibly the least convincing liar to ever dwell on planet Earth.

A terrible combination, all in all, the two of them. For so many reasons.

“I mean. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to know… It’s just that I probably never will.”

His arm tightens around her waist, and she finds herself pressed closer into his side and his chest.

Heaven. This is heaven.

Except for the topic at hand, of course. How did they get here, anyway? She distinctly remembers that not even ten minutes ago they were having an animated conversation about which The Lord of the Rings film adaptation is the best.

Weird.

“There are resources that you could take advantage of. To find out who they are, and why they decided to… let go of you.”

“Right. I know that. Hey, have I evermention that I’m an attorney, too?” She pokes him in the side and he doesn’t budge, rock solid. Though he does roll his eyes a bit.

“But you haven’t.”

She hasn’t _._ “They are expensive. And time consuming.”

“Mmm.” The vibration travels through his chest and her cheek and then settles soothingly into her brain. His hand starts tracing lazy patterns up and down her lower back, tickling her pleasantly. Heaven, really. “I could help.”

 _No._ “Thanks. There is no need, though. I—things are fine the way they are.” _For the most part._

“And yet.”

“Yet, what?”

Ben shifts under her until he can hold her gaze. “You think about it.”

Not true. Well, not as much as she used to. And how to explain this to someone like Ben, anyway. Someone who chose to turn his back to the entirety of his family, someone who is completely estranged from his mother, someone who clearly hates everything that has to do with a past he can barely stand to speak of. How to make him understand.

“It’s just…It’s not about them.”

He keeps looking at her in that quiet way of his, as if prompting her to continue.

“It’s more that I don’t really know—” _anything_ “—who I am.”

“You know who you are.”

“I don’t, though. I have no….no beginning. I’m… nothing.”

He looks taken aback for a moment, searching her eyes for a long moment, looking for who knows what.

“Not to me,” he murmurs after a while, almost too low for her to hear it. Then he bends over her, moving so that her back slides to the mattress, kissing her—messy and deep—first on the mouth, then on the collarbone, and then heading lower down her body.

He does thing thing, whenever he goes down on her—which is… _a lot_. A lot of times. He does this thing, which is lifting her leg over his shoulder to open her up better, and then, _then_ he doesn’t lean in, and trail soft kisses on her inner thighs, and delicately work his way to pressing his lips against her. It’s _never_ what he does. No, what he likes is—

He opens his mouth and licks her, tongue flat against her, just the right amount of pressure, and for someone who never really looks like he needs or craves anything, yeah, the look in his eyes when he does this is positively ravenous. _You, um, shouldn’t. I’m really… wet, down there,_ she told him the first time he did that. He just looked at her with that expression of his, half outraged and half disbelieving, and then proceeded to demonstrate how little he minded through at least three orgasms.

He's quite… good, at this. At everything, really.

“I love your soft little cunt.”

She immediately feels swollen, hot and empty, and by now he knows how to fill her, how many fingers, how fast, without her never having to say a word. She only has to bear down, and arch a little to balance the pressure building up in her belly, her heel pressing into the unyielding muscles of his back as the tension in her legs and torso becomes unbearable, and even then his hand is there, pressing into her stomach, containing her.

“Rey,” he says into her abdomen when she’s still coming down, breathing too quickly. “The way you come.”

She’s almost asleep by the time he moves up her body, stroking himself almost absentmindedly, the head of his cock wet and sticky, rubbing against her tummy and her hipbone, grinding between her legs as he stares down at her with a spellbound expression. He grunts before he comes, his eyes shut tight from the pleasure, and there’s _so much_ , making a mess of her the way he likes to, rubbing his come all over her skin and Rey—Rey lets him. Rey loves it.

Rey loves… yeah.

“You’re everything,” she thinks he tells her the moment before her brain snaps black from exhaustion.

Or maybe she’s just imagining it.

 

…

 

 

It’s because her car breaks down, and public transportation from her place to her office sucks—not to mention from her place to Ben’s, since apparently they are two universes meant to be eternally segregated—which means that she’s left with little choice but inviting him to her apartment.

He is… surprised, the moment he sees the neighborhood she leaves in. He is _appalled_ when he notices the size and conditions of apartment—which, she maintains, are perfectly normal if one discounts that the heating tends to malfunction a little too often. And the mold in the hallway. And the fact that the elevator hasn’t really been working. For the past nine months.

“It’s… too small. And there’s a weird smell in the hallway. And what’s that thing on the ceiling?”

“Yeah. Well.” She shrugs and ignores him. “Rent’s expensive in this city.”

His eyes zero on her.

“How much do you make, exactly?”

“I’m a government employee with very few years of experience. You _know_ how much I make. It’s online, anyway.”

His expression is positively pained, which is a little humorous, mainly because of how out of place he looks when he’s not surrounded by sleek furniture and rooms that are at least a million square feet. Broad as he is, he takes up about half of her kitchenette.

Just as he takes up so much space in her mind. How fitting.

“Rey. Please. _Please_ , come to work for me.”

“No, thank you,” she answers primly, looking for something to eat in her very, very sad fridge, trying not to think too wistfully about whatever masterpiece of cuisine is currently living in his fridge. Untouched and uneaten, while she is a millisecond from starvation. “We should order takeout, probably. I’ve got a bunch of menus in that drawer.”

Or at least she used to. She hasn’t really had a meal at her place in… _wow_. A long time.

“I will pay you twice as much as what you’re making now.”

She sighs and leans her shoulder against the fridge door. God, she’s hungry. “No.”

“Three times.”

She sighs. Again. “Ben.”

He screws his face and does some calculations in his head. “I can probably stretch it to four times, but I’d have to get approval from the other partners. I can make a phone call and—”

“ _No_. No—Thanks, but I’d like to keep my soul for now.”

“Then…” his throat works a bit while he loosens his tie. “Then just come stay with me.”

Now, _that_ takes her by surprise. “What?”

“You can stay with me. At my place.”

 _What?_ “I can’t afford to pay rent in your neighborhood.”

“No, you—You don’t need to pay rent. Just stay with me.”

“Like… Like, as a non-paying roommate, you mean?”

_This is insane. Ben has finally gone insane._

“Yeah.” He runs his hand through his hair. “No. I mean, whatever. I don’t care. Just—come stay with me.”

It’s all she can do not to pinch the bridge of her nose. “You want me to come stay with you as your… whatever.”

He shrugs. He just _shrugs_ , and looks at her, and then he opens his mouth and says—

“We can get married, if you want.”

There’s a pounding in her ears, fast and loud, which is probably the reason why she didn't hear correctly what he said. She massages her temple, trying to dampen the roaring sound. “What?”

“It’s fine to get married, if you don’t want to just move in with a… guy. I know some gir—some people are weird about it. It makes sense.”

It’s all she can do keep her jaw attached to her face. “Did you—Did you just ask me to marry you? Out of the blue? Because… Because _you don’t like my place?_ ”

He’s shrugging again. “Yeah. I mean, if you want.”

“I—” God. _God_ , she’s getting a headache. A migraine, probably. And she’s all flushed, she can feel the heat in her cheeks. “Do you happen to know the legal meaning of _marriage_?”

“Marriage is a piece of paper.”

“Marriage is— _Ben_. You’re a lawyer. You’re _the_ lawyer. Marriage is a legally binding contract—”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Contracts mean shit if you’re a good enough lawyer. It’s all about the loopholes, anyway.”

God.

God, God, _God_.

“Wow. You really believe in love, don’t you?”

He rolls his eyes, clearly getting impatient. She’s a pro at reading him by now—the way his mouth flattens, the sulky expressions, how his tone becomes just that much harsher. She’s a pro, and yet—she did not see _this_ coming.

“I’m just saying that I don’t want you living here, and if that’s what it takes we can get married.”

“Because my apartment is too small and you don’t like my street,” she speaks slowly, trying to sound as level as possible, but she’s incredulous, and the temptation to laugh in his face is definitely there. To cry, too.

This stupid, ridiculous, confusing man.

He just shrugs, _again_. He really needs to stop doing that, drawing her attention to those shoulders of his, distracting her while she’s trying to reason him out of whatever madness has taken over him in the last ten minutes. “As good a reason as any.”

“Okay. _Okay_ , so I get married with the lead of the defense team on… mmm, I believe at last count it was three of the court cases I’m working on. All so I can live in a nicer place and neighborhood—when mine is absolutely fine, by the way. And what does _he_ get out of this?”

He looks around, as if searching for an answer in her kitchenette. He _really_ needs to stop shrugging like that, or she’s going to hit him.

“We could have sex more often.”

She massages her temple and tries not to sigh. “Ben, I think we’re already maxing that out.”

He laughs. He actually _laughs_. “Oh, no. _No way._ I’m restraining myself _all the time_. I would totally—”

“You realize that I would actually be living there. With you. I’d be a _person_ , living and breathing and doing things in your space _all the time_. You’d try to murder me on day three and we’ve already established that I’m quicker and stronger and more agile than you, so I’d have to kill you and I really don’t think I should go to prison, not with all the criminals I’ve helped put away in the last few years.”

He frowns. “You’re not that much quicker. Or stronger. You only won that session because I’d pulled that muscle on my side—”

“Ben. You’d get sick of me in half a day if I lived with you. You’d hate me.”

The way he’s looking at her right now, though.

Like he—like _she’s_ …

Lately he’s been staring at her like that in public more and more often. Long, lingering looks during briefings, eyes trailing over her as she sits opposed to him, tracking her as she enters the courtroom a handful of minutes too late. Leia has noticed, Rey thinks. Maybe. She’s not sure, but Leia made a weird snide comment the other day, and Rey thinks she has observed something between them. Probably just Ben’s interests, and isn’t that funny, that Ben Solo, professional liar, is unable to hide the fact that he finds the prosecution attractive. If that’s what it is, anyway. Maybe he just stares at Rey because he hates the clothes she wears. Or her freckles. Hard to tell, with him.

“And,” she continues—and suddenly, suddenly she just has to smile, “for God’s sake, Ben, people don’t getmarried because one of them lives in a crappy apartment.”

He cocks his head and studies her, crossing his arms on his chest. “Why do people get married?”

“I don’t know. Because… because they’re in love, I guess.”

And Rey and Ben aren’t. This thing, between them, is not—this is not what it is about. No matter that Rey has… That Rey is…

She presses her lips into a thin line.

_No matter._

Ben is still looking at her with a hint of something unreadable in his eyes, a shade of—sadness, perhaps, that Rey is probably be imagining since it disappears as soon as his eyes blink once, that closed off expression he always shows in court the only thing lingering on his strange, handsome face.

“Right,” he just says, and then he clears his throat, his eyes drifting to some spot behind Rey’s head. “Should I order pizza? Chinese?”

Rey smiles, and it’s a real smile this time. “I don’t care. Just order a lot, okay?”

He pinches her hip on his way to the menu drawer. “You garbage disposal.”

 

…

 

“I saw you, yesterday.”

There is a hint in Poe’s voice. Of what, Rey doesn’t quite know, but it’s enough to send a frisson of something down her spine, and to make her halt in her tracks when she’s about to exit his office and go back to her own.

“Really?”

Poe puts down the pen he's holding and sits back in his chair, which… yeah. It does nothing to lessen her unease. “Yep.”

Yesterday.

On Sunday, then. Spent mainly in bed—with Ben—and binge-watching Netflix—with Ben—and then in bed again—with Ben.

And, for brief time in the morning, at the farmers market. With Ben.

Because for some reason that may or may not have to do with the fact that they are together _all the time_ lately, Ben now has a pretty good grasp of what Rey’s favorite food trucks are, and he decided that it would be nice to get her a breakfast burrito.

He does stuff like that a lot, lately. Rey knows better than to read anything into it.

Still. The issue remains, as that was the only time she was outside yesterday, and if Poe saw her…

If Poe saw her…

 _Shit_.

His voice is low when he continues. “Rey, I have no idea why you’re doing this, and I don’t even want to know how you would… How you _could_ —” He combs his fingers through his hair, looking at her with a mixture of incredulity and… disappointment. Poe is disappointed in her. “But you have to stop.”

She hugs to her chest the pile of files she is carrying in her arms. Her stomach feels heavy and queasy, as if she could throw up any moment.

“It’s not the way you think.”

“I—believe me, I’m trying _not_ to think about this. _At all_. Still. You understand that the conflict of interest is unquantifiable. It could be construed as you—” he grimaces, “—sleeping with him to get confidential information, or even the opposite—”

“No, it’s not like that. We never talk about work. We just…” _You don’t_ just _anything,_ a voice screams inside her head. _There is no ‘just’ about Ben, or what Ben does to you, or what you feel for—_ “It’s not the way you think,” she repeats, more weakly this time.

Poe studies her for a moment and then stands from his desk, circling it and coming to a stop in front of Rey. His hand is a warm, reassuring weight on her shoulder.

“Rey.” He sighs. “You have to end this. Or… Or I’m going to have to tell Leia, and we both know how this will end for you.”

 

…

 

 

 **R:** Hey.

 **R:** I know I said I was too busy, but my schedule cleared up. Is it okay if I come over tonight?

 **B:** Of course.

 **R:** See you later.

 

…

 

 

“I could lose my job.”

Ben looks up from perusing the plastic food container, amused. “Rey. Come on, you’re by far the best ADA that office has. They are not going to fire you." He holds the container to her. "Do you think this is still edible? It smells weird.”

She doesn't take it. “They could, though. Legally.”

“No. Not because you’re friendly with someone on the defendant’s team.”

 _Friendly_.

“Yes, because I didn’t tell them beforehand. Because I lied and put them in an awkward, potentially liable position.”

“They won’t fire you, not if they’re smart and know what’s best for them. Which, even _I_ have to admit, they usually are,” he mutters, putting the container back in the fridge.

“Leia will think I’m jeopardizing the cases I’m working on that you’re involved in. Assign them to someone else, perhaps.”

“Well, you’re not. You haven’t.”

“Still.”

Bed nods, clearly unconvinced. "Okay. What do you think we should do, then?"

She has rehearsed this.

She knows what to say, and how to say it, and now she’s gonna push out the words and be assertive and logical and pragmatic. And if he asks her _why,_ she’ll calmly explain her reasons, and he’ll nod politely—because for all his barking and sulking and the occasional courtroom tantrum, he’s an adult who has always respected her boundaries. She’ll say the words, and then she will collect her—numerous—belongings scattered around this spotless, immaculate apartment that happens to be the place where she has spent most of her time for the past six months, and he will walk her to the door for the last time. About ten minutes ago it began snowing—even though the temperature should be at least ten degrees warmer by now—and Ben knows that she hates driving in the snow, so maybe he’ll even insist on taking her home—but Rey won’t let him because, yeah. No. Maybe he’ll annoy her into calling a taxi for her, and if that happens—yeah, she’ll accept without fuss. Just to cut the whole thing short.

They will meet again, of course, plenty of times, but it will be _fine_ —absolutely fine. They will be civil and adult about this, and pretend that nothing ever happened.

The end.

She takes a deep breath.

“I think we should stop seeing each other.”

Ben doesn’t nod politely. Nor her offers to help her collect her belongings. He just stares at her like she’s suddenly speaking in Norwegian or something, which is—not the reaction she was expecting. So Rey just… continues talking.

“I—In the end, I agree with Poe’s assessment. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to spend so much time together when we’re on opposite sides of… of so many cases. Because—it’s true, there is a potential for… conflict of interest.” Her cheek—there’s something tickling her left cheek. She lifts her fingers to scratch it and the tips come away wet. Weird. “If… _this_ were to become common knowledge, it would undermine my credibility as an assistant DA and… and yours as a defense attorney, too, I’m sure, so—”

“Rey. What are talking about?”

It’s… hard. This. Harder than she had accounted for.

“As I was saying, I think we really should stop seeing—”

“I heard you. There is no valid reason to do so.” He walks around the kitchen island and steps closer to her. Crowding her. Making room for himself around her like he’s been making room inside her body, inside her mind, inside her heart, leaving her little respite. “And if they fired you, you’d be able to find a better job in a minute.”

“I like my job. It’s important to me. I—I want to be a DA, and—”

“Then be a DA!” It’s too late at night for Ben’s voice to be so loud. If it were Rey’s apartment, the neighbors would be knocking on the walls. Then again, soundproofing is probably way better here. ”You can be a DA and have a private life. They cannot ask you to give that up.”

It’s difficult, to look at him. And for some reason her vision is blurry and getting blurrier.

“Theoretically, I can. I know I can, but probably not… with you. Poe is right.” A broken record, that’s what she sounds like. Telling him all these things she’s been rehearsing, repeating to herself for the past few hours. “Leia would never approve of this. And I do want to continue working with her and learn from her. It’s important to me.”

“Leia.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “What a great fucking role model. Her job—it’s all Leia cares about. All she has _ever_ cared about, what she’s always put first, over her husband, _over her fucking s_ —” He stops himself suddenly and takes a deep breath. His hand runs messily through his hair, and when he speaks again his tone is considerably calmer. “You know what? If… If working with her is more important to you than… than _this_ , that’s fine. It’s your choice.”

It’s not, not really. Her job is not more important that _this_ —she’s not sure there’s anything more important than _this_ , except that…

When _he_ says _this_ , he is likely referring to getting laid.

When _she_ says _this_ , what she means is…

Yeah.

Yeah.

Oh, well. No one dies of heartbreak, anyway.

“I’m sorry, Ben. It wouldn’t have… It wouldn’t have worked out, anyway. Not in the long run.” He says nothing, his expression completely closed. His lips are a thin line against the pale skin of his face. There is something constricting Rey’s throat, making it harder and harder to speak. “Because we’re so different. We have nothing in common. I—I don’t know, we don’t even like each other. Well, I— Probably you don’t even like me. Because…” The sleeve of her sweater, the one she’s been using to wipe her cheeks, is completely drenched. “In the end, you are you. And I am me.”

He looks at her with a a stony expression, eyes hard in that way they often are when it’s not just the two of them. And then, after a long time, he simply nods once.

She turns around and runs out of his apartment.

 

…

 

“You made the best choice. The only possible choice, really.”

Poe smiles reassuringly over his beer and then pats her hand in that sexless, friendly way of his.

Rey can’t quite force herself to smile back.

 

…

 

 

They were always going to cross paths again, so she’s not surprised when she turns a corner and finds him walking towards her. What does startle her is how close he is— _so close_ , so close that if she took two more steps and he stayed exactly where he is she would bump right into him, and her forehead would hit his collarbone—her favorite spot to lean on, by far—and she could easily bury her nose in his chest and smell that wonderful smell of his, and maybe even circle her arms around his waist and lean in and—

The point is moot, because she won’t. She just stops and stares at him, and he does the same, that intense expression he always has a little more empty, a little more bitter, a little more tired than usual. A few steps away from them someone makes some kind of joke that has everyone laugh a little too loudly. Inconceivable,  that there would be people who can be amused by a stupid joke right now, in this moment.  

 _Hi_ , she wants to say, but it sounds so lame in her mind—and they are in the courthouse. It’s not as if they’ve ever really been on speaking terms at work, anyway. And yet, there is so much she wants to say.

_How are you?_

_Is everything okay?_

_I can’t believe how incredibly shitty the weather has been. I mean, it’s March. Come on._

_I miss you the most in the morning. When I wake up and the sheets don’t smell like you._

She would probably sound like a terrible creep. It’s been weeks. Whatever he was getting out that…that  _thing_ , with her, he’s probably getting somewhere else now. From someone else. This is—so, so, _sooo_ fine, and she can absolutely, totally—

A hand waves in front of her eyes, and Rey realizes that she’s been staring at Ben. Who has been staring back.

“Yo, Rey. Are you taking a nap? We gotta go.” Finn takes her by the elbow and leads her—somewhere. Away. Probably to the hearing they’re here for. When she turns back to look at Ben, all she can see is his tense back as he walks in the opposite direction.

“Rey, why was Ben Solo looking at you like that?”

 _I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore._ “Like what?”

“Like you slaughtered his goldfish.”

“He doesn’t have a goldfish,” she answers automatically.

Finn slows down and shoots her a weird look. “How do you even know that?”

 _Shit_. “I— _I_ don’t. But, you know. Look at him. Does he scream goldfish owner to you?”

Finn thinks about it for a moment. “Mmm. Yeah, he doesn’t strike me as a pet person.”

It is, of course, blatantly false. Ben grew up with cat who died when he was fourteen, Artoo, and one Saturday he spent about one hour telling Rey about him while they were snuggling on his couch. He could play fetch, apparently.

“It must be because of the Deathstar case. We’re totally going to win that, thanks to you. He must hate you by now.”

It’s like a physical blow to her solar plexus. Rey takes a deep breath and tells herself that she can do this. _She_ _can_.

“Yeah. He must.”

 

…

 

_No one dies of heartbreak, anyway._

 

…

  

She’s not asleep, but it’s late enough that in another universe—one in which closing her eyes and allowing her brain to function and work and _think_ isn’t unbearably painful—she probably would be. It’s definitely too late to be waiting up for anyone, which is why she is a little nervous about going to the door when she hears the knock. She still talks herself into doing it, thinking it might be someone needing her help because of all this stupid, unseasonal snow—maybe her neighbor who is a doctor and keeps weird hours, perhaps with her car stuck in a snow patch and looking for some help with the shoveling. It wouldn’t even be the first time in the past week.

It’s not her neighbor.

He is so tall that he almost fills the doorway, blocking the already too dim light of the hallway. Standing there, like that, he looks—many, many things at the same time. Handsome and beautiful and tired and young and sad and angry and determined and also, when she turns on the light in the entrance of her apartment and he can finally see her… relieved. Soothed by her presence. He seems different—from usual, from the last time she saw him in the courthouse last week, from all the other times, when they…. For one, he’s not wearing a tie. He’s not wearing a _suit_ , actually, and of course she has seen him without one before—she has seen him without _anything_ , countless times—but there is something disheveled, undone about him that feels… unfamiliar to her. New. Not that it makes her feel any less self-conscious about her plaid pajamas and the fencing team sweater she has on.

“Ben. Um, hello. Do you want to come—”

Yes, apparently, because he’s inside her apartment well before she can finish the sentence, the door closing behind him with clicking sound that is probably just loud enough to wake Mrs. Jenkins two doors down. She sort of expects him to walk past her and let himself in, but he just leans back against the door, his hands trapped behind his body as if… as if to prevent himself from reaching for… for something.

_He must hate you by now._

Not for Rey, for sure. It wouldn’t make sense.

“Hi.” His voice is quiet.

Rey is not sure what to do with her arms. She first uses them to smooth her sweatshirt down, and then awkwardly crosses them over her chest. Then she remembers that it’s pretty much the most off-putting of body language habits, and this is— _was_ —Ben, _her_ Ben, and no matter how he feels about her, that’s not how she wants to come across to him. In the end, she lets her hands dangle by her sides, uselessly.

“Hi.”

An awkward silence falls, and then stretches for a little too long, filled only by the way he's staring at her.

 _Hungry_ , Rey thinks. _He looks hungry_.

“Are you… Did something happen?”

“No. No, I…” He shakes his head. “Is it okay if I’m here? I didn’t…”

“Yes. Yes, it’s—Did you… Did you need anything?"

A deep breath. “I quit.”

It takes a moment for her to register. “You—What?”

“I quit. My job.”

The end of his hair is damp, and a little messier and curlier than usual. That’s probably why he looks different. Rey imagines how snowflakes must have stuck in the black of his hair as he walked on the sidewalk, how they must have melted as he made his way up to her apartment. Better than focusing on the words he’s saying at the moment, for sure.

“You—Why?”

It’s probably a stupid question. _Probably_. At least judging from the way he looks at her when he answers.

“Rey.”

“Ben, I—” Oh, God. “You can’t quit your job. Not for…” _Oh, God._ “You can’t.”

“Why?”

“ _Because_.”

“Oh, right. That _is_ a very cogent argument. Let me go ask Snoke to give back my resignation letter.”

She wipes her hands down her face. “Jesus. Ben.”

He falls quiet for a long moment, and so does she.

“Ben—You’re a partner. What… what are you even going to do?”

He lifts one eyebrow, and his mouth curves upward. “Walmart’s hiring, I think. Don't you think I’d be great in customer service?”

“God.” She buries her face in her hands, and he _would_ do this. Make her laugh when all she wants is to cry. “You can’t do this.”

“Well.” He shrugs. “I have.”

“Ben—”

He lifts his palm to stop her before she can say anything. “It’s been… a long time coming.”

“But it’s not! Ben, you love your job.”

“No.” Why he has that secret almost-smile, she has no clue. “As it turns out, that’s not quite love.”

Oh, God. God, God, _God_.

“Anyway. Just because I… I didn’t mean to pressure you, or…I just wanted you to know.” He exhales a laugh. “I guess I could have just texted you.”

“No!” It comes out louder than she means. “No, I… I’m glad you here.”

An understatement, if there ever was one. And yet it’s seemingly the right thing to say, because he studies for a long moment and then he nods tightly.

“I do, by the way,” he says softly.

“You... Do?”

“Like you.” She must be staring at him blankly, because he qualifies, “You said I probably didn’t, and yeah. It’s not—not exactly true.” His tone is rueful. He’s not quite looking at her, his gaze pointed at the potted ficus tree to her right. Her poor ficus, that almost died three months ago, when she spent two whole weeks at his place and completely forgot to water it. It’s apparently a highly fascinating specimen, worthy of Ben’s intense and careful observation. “And I can’t imagine that I would hate it. Having you live with me, I mean. Or living with you. Since I—I really love it when you’re in my space. And I love having you around. I love fucking you, I love the way you kick my ass in court, I love watching you eat, I love the way you give head, I love fencing with you, I love doing absolutely nothing with you, and I—” He scrunches his eyes shut for a second that lasts a little too long. When he opens them again they look for hers, and his expression is limpid. “I really… _Rey_. Can I—Can I come closer?”

She doesn’t answer—can’t possibly make her mouth and voice work—and instead goes to him, feeling whole again for the first time in weeks. He’s still too tall for her, too tall to reach for and to kiss the way she really wants to, so tall that she has to loop her arms around his neck, beg him silently to lower his head so that she can say the words in his ears, so that she can show him—

“Ben. I never—”

The words choke in throat and she realizes that she is crying.

 _Again_.

She hasn’t cried in years and now, with this man, she can’t seem to stop herself. It’s not—not wholly unpleasant. Not at all, actually. Not right now.

“Shh.” His lips press against her temple, and she feels a scalding heat spreading from deep inside her. “I know.”

“I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“But I really—I didn’t want to—”

“I know. I know.” He cups her face in his hands. His breath is warm against her lips when he speaks. “There is no conflict of interest. We can do… whatever it is that normal people do. Go on dates. And hold hands. And I’ll get you… fuck, I don’t even know. Chocolate. Flowers. Cotton candy.”

“Flowers taste like nothing.” She is shocked by how watery her voice sounds. “But I’ll take the chocolate and the cotton candy.”

He scoffs, and his arms wrap tighter around her. His smell is _phenomenal_. “I’ll get you so much fucking chocolate, Rey. I—”

She’s not sure how it happens that they’re finally kissing, kissing for real, watery and salty and a little trembling, and then Ben is sliding down, his knees coming to rest on the terrible linoleum floor, at Rey’s feet, and suddenly he’s not too tall. He arches into Rey’s hand when she cups his face, looks up at her with those eyes of his that… that she…

“ _Rey_.”

This man, this man, _this man_ who yells and sulks and gets her and makes her soul sing like she never thought it would.

“I know,” she tells him.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Is it true that defense attorneys and prosecutors can’t be in a relationship because it would represent a conflict of interest? Or did I just make up a contrived and unrealistic scenario to add conflict to an otherwise plotless story? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Idk, I have (0) knowledge of the US justice system. I do love Reylo with the intensity of a thousand suns though, that has to count for something, right? Right?!  
> \- Have I mentioned how much I love Reylo recently?  
> \- I also love the Reylo fandom. It’s trashingly amazing and I love everyone in this bar. Thanks to everyone who has commented and reached out to me, you can always find me [here](https://what-if-im-a-mermaid.tumblr.com) or [here](https://ever-so-reylo.tumblr.com/).  
> 


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand, I've written a (grossly saccharine) epilogue to this story! For some reason, it came out in Ben's POV! Thank you all soooooo much for your comments and support. This is truly a great fandom to be in!  
> PS: I'm going to catch up and reply all comments in the next few days, promise!!

 

“We are now officially five minutes late.”

“Ah—Booger. I’ll be out in a second. _So_ sorry.”

“No problem.” He shrugs—which is dumb, since the bathroom door is closed between them and it’s not as if she can see him. “I’ll be downstairs by the door.”

Truth be told, he doesn’t much care if they end up being two hours late. Truth be told, he’d rather not go at all, since neither weddings nor interacting with Rey’s colleagues— _friends, Ben. They’re my friends. And yours_ —are his forte, and this upcoming afternoon is likely going to be a disastrous, painful combination of the two.

Rey has been excited about today for months, though, which means that the very least he can do is keep an eye on the clock and try not sigh more than once every ten minutes.

Possibly when he’s not in Rey’s line of sight.

“ _Soo_ sorry! I haven’t used my eyeliner in so long that it dried up and it took me ages to figure out how to soften it.”

He doesn’t look up from sorting their mail, absently listening to the sound of Rey rummaging through the shoe rack.

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“It’s okay, Ben. You don’t have to pretend you don’t know what makeup is. You’re my manly boy.”

He turns to look at her. “No, really, I—”

It’s a little like being sucker-punched—if being sucker-punched were an ultimately pleasant experience.

It’s a little unfair of him. Because it’s not as if she isn’t the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen at six-thirty AM, when she rubs the sleep out of her eyes while wearing her _Law school survivor_ t-shirt. Or at two AM, when she wakes Ben up with her light snoring, giving him the perfect excuse to reach for her and tuck her into his chest. Or at eight-thirty AM, when she comes back from her run all flushed and sweaty and makes a point of rubbing herself against Ben—who often happens to have just finished showering. Or at seven-thirty PM, when she is so exhausted that all she can do is drag herself into the house and collapse on the couch and lie there for about fifteen minutes, staring at the wall with a vacuous expression.

It’s a well known truth, that Rey is the most beautiful thing in the galaxy. Always. All the fucking time.

It’s just that right now, wearing this dress that shows all this enchanting skin, staring up at him with that soft, expectant smile, with her eyes and lips looking… looking like that, he—

“Oh,” someone says softly—and Rey’s lips aren’t moving, which means that it must have been him.

It’s been… The two of them, like this, it’s been long enough that they don’t measure it in months anymore. It’s been longer than it justifies this reaction that he always has. The way his heart still beats that much faster at the sight of her, even in the routine of their shared lives.

And yet.

_Stupid_. He is deliciously, blessedly stupid for her, and he can’t fathom the day that he will not be.

“Oh,” he repeats idiotically. “Um. You… ah.”

She must know what he means, because she flushes a bit, and at the same time laughs in that way of hers that made him fall in love a million times before he could bear admitting it to himself—before they’d even spoken, really, and they are five—okay, probably ten minutes late—and they really need to get going, but his body is reacting very predictably to—

“Thanks,” she says, half self-conscious and half amused, and then she moves a little bit closer and leans into him to press a kiss into his cheek. He heels are slightly higher than the ones she wears to work, and the reduction in their usual height difference is… heady. “You look good, too. It feels like I never get to see you wear suits anymore.”

She doesn’t. Since slacks and cashmere sweaters suit the academic lifestyle much better. It makes him seem more approachable, he’s been told. Which apparently fosters a more productive relationships between the student body and faculty members.

Go figure.

“BB-8, we’ll be back late. Be a good boy, okay?”

BB-8 charges into the entryway and gives out one single whiny bark at the sight of Ben holding his car keys.

“Did you feed him?” Ben asks, trying to sound…normal. Or at least a little less smitten than he is. He actually has to clear his throat.

“No.”

“Should I—”

“He got into a bag of treats again. Which means that he technically fed himself.” About twice as much as they would have fed him, probably.

Ben crouches in front of BB-8, who promptly licks his hand.

“Bad dog,” he says as sternly as he can muster, patting his head. “This is a punishment cuddle. Don’t enjoy it,” he adds, his voice too low for Rey to hear it.

Theoretically. Maybe not, given the way she half snorts, half giggle behind Ben’s back.

“Ready?”

He twists his neck to look up at her, trying—and failing—not to notice how incredibly, perfectly, dangerously, phenomenally, heartbreakingly—

“Yes.”

 

…

 

“Isn’t it nice of Rose and Finn, to invite us to their wedding?”

Poe’s voice sounds perfectly innocent. So innocent that it takes Ben noticing the way his mother hides a little smile in her champagne flute to realize where he’s getting at. Rey, as usual, is way ahead of Ben.

“It’s not that we didn’t invite _you_ , Poe.” Ben is certain that he’s heard Rey use the same patient tone of voice to kindly explain to the neighbors’ kid that yes, BB-8 may be friendly, but he _will_ bite if his tail is pulled. And then to explain Ben that filing an animal cruelty lawsuit against a clumsy seven-year-old is _never_ a rational decision. “We didn’t invite _anyone_.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” For a moment there, Poe sounds actually reasonable. Ben is _not_ fooled. “And why was that, Mrs. Solo?”

It’s Ben’s fault, of course.

Impossible to put in words, the way he felt when Rey said yes—after he finally worked up the courage to ask. A better man than Ben could have waited, of course, should have, but Ben—not Ben.

Why would he, anyway?

Rey smiles, and doesn’t throw him under the bus. “We wanted to seize the moment, and all that. Plus, we didn’t want to waste all that time and money figuring out the flowers and the venue and stuff. And Ben is going up for tenure at the end of the summer, so his schedule is crazy.”

“Ah, yeah. How goes the indoctrination of a new generation of America’s lawyers, Professor Solo?”

Ben catches himself mid eye-roll. Rey has promised him… _things,_ if he’s nice to Poe today, and Ben, yeah. He doesn’t want to miss out.

“All according to my evil plans.”

From her seat, Rey leans a little into Ben, who finds himself exceedingly grateful to Rose for the seating arrangements. Poe might be sat at the same table, but at least he’s four seats away from him. If Ben wants—and Ben wants, though he knows Poe means well—he can ignore him and focus on Rey. Or even Leia, since things with his mother are… better, by far. _Even good_ , Rey would say, and Ben, Ben would let her—because he has yet to learn to tell her no.

“Are you trying to convince all your students that working for the DA’s office is a waste of time?”

“Nah. Only the really promising ones.”

Poe tips his glass in Ben’s direction. “I wouldn’t expect anything less of you. Rey, if you guys ever have kids don’t let Ben talk to them about law, okay? We don’t need to lose another one to the dark side.”

“Oh, we’ve already decided that any child of ours will be a professional fencer. No worries on that front.”

“As long as I _do_ get a grandchild,” Leia interjects.

She always says that. It’s a script of sorts, one they follow every single time they are in the presence of his mother—an occurrence which is more and more frequent. Leia pretends to be more nosey and pushy than she really is, and Rey laughs cheerfully, and Ben sighs a little too loudly and feigns an annoyance that he doesn’t quite feel.

It’s nice, to have these small rituals.

To have a family, Ben supposes.

A few minutes later, when the orchestra begins playing again, they watch Poe and Leia make their way to the dance floor and engage in something that involves a worrisome amount of latin dips. With her usual enthusiasm Rey finishes her slice of cake—chocolate—and then Ben's, and then, with a satisfied sigh, she puts her fork back on the plate, taking Ben’s hand in both of hers and guiding it to her lap.

Under the table, his fingers spread over her abdomen. Ben feels the steady warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips as they exchange a sweet, secret smile.

He wants for nothing.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so after spending my Saturday night staring at pictures of Daisy Ridley I've decided that Rey is wearing [this dress](https://www.vogue.com/article/daisy-ridley-chloe-star-wars-world-premiere-celebrity-red-carpet-style) (except maybe not in white since it's someone else's wedding).
> 
> ETA: Guys check out this incredible [moodboard](https://galacticprideandprejudice.tumblr.com/post/170836918693/youre-everything-she-thinks-he-tells-her-the) galacticprideandprejudice made!!
> 
> Also, please look at the stunning [calligraphy art](https://reylocalligraphy.tumblr.com/post/178013951568/reylo-fic-calligraphy-left-handed-kisses-by) reylocalligraphy made!! I am tearing up <3


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